Grandeur

 GRANDEUR

A short story

by Deenur

It was past 3:00am at the Loco Bronco, as Tony sat playing darts by himself.  The country themed tavern’s neon signs, which normally provided the majority of lighting in the place, were turned off. The bar now seemed unusually gloomy, but Tony didn’t know if it was because of the lack of neon light, or the memories of earlier that evening.

    As Tony reflected back on the events, his thoughts were cut into by the noise of the closing crew cleaning up. A mop bucket banged into a table leg, as if the person mopping was in too big of a hurry. Plates and silverware clanked in the kitchen as Tony carefully tried to measure each shot.

    He let one dart fly, and completely missed the board, scowling at the employees and their clamor. But Tony knew it wasn’t the workers, or their noise that troubled him. It was the fact that he couldn’t get past the pain of Maggie.

The dartboard lost his interest as he once again went over the events earlier that evening, wondering if he should have handled it differently.

The saloon was full and noisy. Rough wooden picnic tables and wood benches made up most of the seating. Peanut shells were always present in the bar’s floor, as customers were encouraged to throw the shells down, after grabbing a handful of nuts from the metal buckets of peanuts on each table.

Tony sat at the back of the saloon with Dennis, Cross, and Conklin drinking way too much for his body weight. Cross started at him from across the table while he nursed a pint of beer.

“That’s your sixth one in 45 minutes,” Cross observed.

Tony looked up at Cross with an alcoholic varnish covering his eyes. “Smooch my big, white butt.”

“OK buddy, it’s your hangover.”

“I told you before, I don’t get hungover.”

Tony looked at the room, then at Cross, then Conklin, then at Dennis. Dennis was the only person who wasn’t drinking alcohol, being the designated driver for the evening.

    Having lost Cross’s attention for the moment, he started in on Dennis. “You know, she told me to get rid of the horse or she was going.” Tony paused, straining to form his words. “And you know, I don't even miss her.”

    Dennis just nodded. He had heard the ‘Tony rants about Maggie’ diatribe dozens of times before. Tony raised a finger in the air, like a politician about to make a point. His hands were flecked with paint from his painting business. Tony hesitated, and dropped his finger. “She remarried you know.”

    “Yes Tony, she did.” Dennis answered.

“Well, I hope she's pecking him to death just like she did me.”

Sandy, their red-haired, pony-tailed waitress shuffled across the shell covered floor, kicking up dust. She held her serving tray under her arm.

    “You guys OK?”

    Dennis answered first. “We’re good Sandy.”

Tony raised his head and squinted at the thin redhead, and raised his finger again, proclaiming with his best ‘King’ voice. “Another beer my dear! And one for Denny boy!”

Conklin caught Sandy’s attention and made hand motions behind Tony's back indicating Sandy should ignore Tony.

“I’m driving remember?” said Dennis. “Ice tea.” Dennis took another sip of his drink.

Tony continued. “One beer won’t hurt you bro! Come on! Drink with me! A round for everybody, beverage wench!”

“Yeah, sure Tony. By the way, I've been meaning to ask. Why do painters always wear white while they are painting? Sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it?”

    Tony looked down at his paint flecked hands and wrists. “Wench, you’re risking a flogging. Your job is to dispense drink, not philosophy.”

    Sandy was just preparing to fire back when Alex, the tavern's owner, shouted at the waitress. She turned, flipped her ponytail and plodded off into the distance.

    Beyond Sandy, the Jackson County Scrappers were setting up for their first music set.

     “Its gonna get real loud in here, real fast” Conklin noted. “I say we scoot mister personality home to bed, and go bowl a couple of rounds before it gets too late.” Conklin stood, but sat again just as quickly, his face blanched.

    “What?” Dennis asked.

    Cross and Dennis looked across the room and saw that Maggie had just entered the bar with her new husband. Cross, Conklin and Dennis kept their conversation to whispers.

    “Crap,” said Cross. “We can’t let Tony see her.”

    “We could start an argument with Tony to distract him and get him out,” Conklin offered.

    “I should try and warn Maggie,” Dennis said.

    Tony finally picked up on the whispers. “Hey! What are you guys bein’ all secretive about?”

    At that moment, Maggie laughed from across the room. Tony instantly recognized the sound, whipping his head around, glaring at Maggie. Tony watched as Maggie and her husband Clay joined friends at a table.

    Slowly, Tony reached to his boot, pulling his Scottish dirk, bringing the double edge knife up by his face, and rubbing his thumb slowly across one edge, as if he is stroking a woman's cheek with affection.

    From across the room, Alex saw the knife and pulled an aluminum baseball bat from beneath the counter. Dennis watches Alex’s reaction to something, and whirled around to see Tony’s indiscretions.

    “Put that thing down,” Dennis said. “You want to spend the night in jail?”

    Without speaking, Tony stood and stabbed the knife onto the heavy wood table. The knife stuck right between two of the football trading cards laminated into the top. “It’s down. Happy?”

Cross knew what was coming. “Oh crap.”

    Cross, Conklin and Dennis watched as Tony moved over toward Maggie's table. Dennis jumped up right behind him.

    Maggie noticed Tony moving over to her and her eyes widen. She broke the tension by speaking first.

    “Dennis, hi!” Her voice was nervous and awkward. “And Tony, how are you guys?”

    “Maggie. We're great,” Dennis offered. “Just hanging out after a hard week. You know how that goes.” Behind Dennis, Tony stood by with the look of an abandoned dog left on the country road.

    Maggie continued, forcing a happy face. “Boy do I. Hey! You guys haven't met Clay, have you? Tony, Dennis this is Clay.”

    Dennis leaned in to take his outstretched hand, but Tony didn’t not respond. Clay pulled his hand back, looking at Tony with confidence but not challenge. Clay was powerfully built. Dennis could see that he was tall, event though he stayed seated. His clean shaven head made him look all the more menacing. “So, what do you guys do?” Clay asked.

    “I'm a sports writer,” said Dennis. “Tony's a painter.”

    At that moment, Conklin and Cross walked up, joining in small talk.

    “Hey Maggie,” Conklin said.

    “Hey Art, how's Lisa?” Maggie asked.

    Before Art Conklin could answer, Tony cut in. “Maggie?”

    Maggie stared at her ex-husband a few seconds before answering. “Yes, Tony?”

“I'm glad I saw you tonight, 'cause I have something to tell you.”

    Clay visibly tensed at the conversation, but Maggie reached for his thigh under the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Clay softened. Maggie continued. “Yes, Tony?”

    “I just wanted to tell you- that- that, I don't miss you.”

Instantly Tony turned away from the table and headed back to his own table.

    “Maggie, Clay, I'm sorry to have bothered you,” Dennis said. “Have a good night, okay?” Dennis turned to Conklin and Cross, whispering. “Let’s get him out of here.”

    Dennis, Cross and Conklin returned to collect Tony. Conklin grabbed the door, Cross grabbed the knife and Dennis fished a $100 bill out of Tony's shirt pocket. Dennis folded the bill up and handed it to Alex. “Put the rest of the damage on Tony’s bill.”

    Dennis hung Tony's arm over his shoulder and helped him out into the fresh air. 

    Outside the Loco Bronco, Cross and Conklin stood across the parking lot, with the doors of the Oldsmobile open and waiting.

    Dennis looked down at his friend. He was the only one to notice that Tony was crying.

Hours later, the saloon was closing when Tony shuffled in. He looked tired, worn out, disheveled. Sandy saw him. “Tony!”

    Tony spoke slowly. “I just want to play some darts.”

    Sandy reflexively looked at the clock. “But, we’re closing.”

    Tony answered politely. “I know. I just want to play some darts.”

    “Are you by yourself?” Sandy asked. “Where’s everybody else? How’d you get here anyway?”

    “I walked,” Tony answered. “I just want to play some darts.”

    “You walked? That’s three miles!”

    “Yeah,” Tony said. He reached in his wallet and pulled out two $100 bills. “Tell Alex sorry about the table. I can give him more when I finish this next job, if that’s not enough. Can I just play some darts?”

    Sandy looked back to the kitchen, where the employees were engaged in closing duties. “Yeah, I guess. Alex probably won’t care if you’re here, while we clean up.”

    Tony walked to the dartboard and looked at the darts. He slowly gathered the darts, walked back to the line, and began to throws the darts. Then he shuffled over, and gathered the darts, and repeated the action. The clock over the bar read 2:20.

    Tony slowly gathered the darts, walked to the line, then threw the darts, moving slower and slower. He repeated the action. The clock over the bar read 3:10.

    Half an hour later, he very slowly gathered the darts, threw the darts, stared, shuffled over and gathered the darts. He started at the darts in his hand. The clock over the bar read 3:45 and Tony had no idea what he was going to do next. It had been 8 months, he told himself. He should have been past the pain by now.

-End

Deenur

360-606-4645

deengill@gmail.com